


riding seaward on the waves

by procellous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consentacles, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluffy Smut, Getting Together, Masturbation, Mentioned Jeyne Poole/Sansa Stark, Mentioned Ramsay Snow, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Past Underage, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Tentacle Sex, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, okay unpleasant tags out of the way, shamelessly and unapologetically pro-Theon, the pettiest of fix-its
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: The pebbles crunched under his boots as he wandered along the shoreline. He knew this place, knew the shape of the land as it fought the dark sea for every rocky inch it could get. Salt clung to the cliffs, the spray of the water around the rocks raining down on him; the sea’s counter-offensive to batter the land back beneath the waves.It was quiet, which it shouldn’t have been. The only sound was the faint roar of the ocean, as though he was hearing it from miles away. There should have been the screams of the sea birds, the bellows of the seals, the songs and chatter of the fisherfolk bringing in their nets. There should have been a castle perched on the cliffs behind him, skittering crabs crawling around his boots, ropes of kelp tied around the rocks. The tide pools he splashed through should have held urchins and sea stars and anemones. Driftwood should be scattered along the high tide line. There should have been noise and life, but there was nothing but the stone and the sea and the sky, each as grey as the others.“Have you remembered who you are, then?”
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	riding seaward on the waves

**Author's Note:**

> content note: there is a brief discussion towards the end of the fic about Theon's first time; while Theon doesn't consider it to have been non-consensual, it ~~definitely was~~ is at most _extremely_ dubious consent and is definitely statutory (he was thirteen, she was ~30ish), so be aware of that. And of course passing mentions of Ramsay, but surprisingly very little of those. 
> 
> on that cheerful note, have some consentacles!

The pebbles crunched under his boots as he wandered along the shoreline. He knew this place, knew the shape of the land as it fought the dark sea for every rocky inch it could get. Salt clung to the cliffs, the spray of the water around the rocks raining down on him; the sea’s counter-offensive to batter the land back beneath the waves. 

It was quiet, which it shouldn’t have been. The only sound was the faint roar of the ocean, as though he was hearing it from miles away. There should have been the screams of the sea birds, the bellows of the seals, the songs and chatter of the fisherfolk bringing in their nets. There should have been a castle perched on the cliffs behind him, skittering crabs crawling around his boots, ropes of kelp tied around the rocks. The tide pools he splashed through should have held urchins and sea stars and anemones. Driftwood should be scattered along the high tide line. There should have been noise and life, but there was nothing but the stone and the sea and the sky, each as grey as the others. 

“Have you remembered who you are, then?”

He turned, slowly, towards the voice. It was his own, and it came out of…nowhere. Nothingness. Waves crashed against the shore, the wind howled around the stones, and there was no other living thing on the beach. 

“My name is Theon Greyjoy,” he said, to the nothingness that had spoken. “A son of Pyke, of the islands.”

Waves crested against a rock. The sea-foam formed a vaguely human shape as it sprayed against the stone, and when it retreated, there was a man sitting there, his chin resting on one knee. 

Theon stared at the copy of himself. It was almost, but not quite, him—the scars faded, each hand five-fingered and each bare foot five-toed. Theon’s eyes skipped over the shadow of his thighs, but he suspected that it would be whole and intact if he looked. 

“I’m dreaming,” he said. “Aren’t I?”

“Something like that, yes.” The copy tilted his head, studying Theon. “You’re going to rescue your sister.”

“I am.”

“And then where will you go, once she is safe?”

“Wherever she needs me.”

There was a glint in the copy’s eyes. “If she told you to go where you willed, where would you go?”

He had imagined her happy so often that it was hard to remember that when he had last seen her, she was trembling with cold and fear, half-starved and desperate. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“You do.”

Theon could have laughed. “I don’t even know if she’s _alive_.”

“Do you want to go to her because of oaths broken and debts unpaid, or because you love her?”

“I can’t love anyone.”

“I wonder that you try to lie to me, Theon Greyjoy. I know your heart too well for that. You cannot love anyone, you say? Then why are you rescuing your sister? What compels you, if not love?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. 

“And the woman you long for, the one to whom your thoughts turn, is that not because you love her?”

“I…it is, but she deserves better than me. Better than a broken wreck.”

“Broken,” the copy repeated, lip curling in disgust. “You are not _broken_ , nor wholly lost. I made you too strong for that.”

The realization struck him to the bones. “You’re—”

The Drowned God laughed, head thrown back. “I was wondering when you’d figure that out. I suppose I don’t look much like what you were expecting.” His form rippled like a reflection in a still pool and shifted to a broad man, arms heavily banded with muscle. His long hair and beard were made of sea foam, flowing down his chest and over his shoulders. His dark eyes glinted beneath his bushy brows. An axe gleamed in his hand, dark-stained and dripping. 

Theon couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Terror crushed his ribs.

“But this is no more my face than yours,” he said, shifting back into the copy of Theon. “I could appear to you as a crab, or a sea-bird, or a whale, and all these would be as true as to appear as a mighty warrior. More, perhaps.”

“What _do_ you look like, then?”

He held out his hands to indicate everything around them. “I am the ocean; I am every tide and swell, every fleck of foam and grain of salt, every current and every undertow. I ebb and fall only to rise once more.”

“Harder and stronger.”

The Drowned God nodded in acknowledgement. “So, Theon Greyjoy, you have asked for my blessing. I could simply bless you, I suppose, but as I am fond of you I will restore what you have lost.”

Theon shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Why would you…”

“I was human once, you know. It was longer ago than you can imagine that I was born of a human woman, had a human name and face; lived and fought and suffered and died.” He seemed fond. “And I rose again, harder and stronger, which you know. As you have done.” 

“I haven’t. Not like you did.”

“Of course not, son of the islands, you are not a god. But you have risen, and higher than you know. It is not often that a greenlander begs a blessing of me for an Ironborn’s sake.”

There was only one greenlander he could think of who might possibly care whether he lived or died. “Is she alright? Do you know?”

“I know that she waits and worries for you, but I see little of her.” The Drowned God’s smile was proud, almost paternal; it was a strange expression to see on his own face. “You have done very well, Theon.”

“I haven’t,” Theon protested. “I made so many mistakes—”

“Theon.” The Drowned God seemed amused. “Your god stands before you, who has seen every breath you have taken in your life, telling you that you are worthy, and yet you persist in arguing that you are not.”

“Sorry.”

The god laughed. “I made you to be bold and unyielding, and I do not regret that. Come here.”

Theon waded out to the rock. The hands that cradled his own weren’t his own; they felt more like Dagmer’s, broad and rough and gentle, smelling of salt. He closed his eyes, feeling tears welling up. A lump formed in his throat. He could feel the warmth of the god’s pride building behind his ribs. 

“You are my own,” the Drowned God said. It wasn’t the copy of his own voice that he had been hearing; this voice was strange, rumbling through his chest. “I made you strong to endure all evils, and you have. Before you were born, I knew you, and when you come to your end, I will be with you.”

Theon woke alone in his small cabin, the moonlight slanting in. A beam of silver light shone through his window. It reminded him of Sansa, but everything reminded him of Sansa, if he let it. 

He pushed a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes—had it been so long when he went to sleep?—and the hair tangled around fingers he didn’t have anymore. He lowered his hand, carefully flexing the fingers. 

There were five fingers on each of his hands. The fingers that should have been missing bore only a thin scar where they had been cut off. The tight, painful scars on his hands and arms were nothing but faint silver lines, hardly disturbing his skin. His toes flexed in his socks; five on each foot, like his hands, and all his teeth were in his jaw. He pulled off his shirt, finding those scars gone as well: pale lines, barely visible in the moonlight. His tattoos were dark and bold, unmarred by the broad trenches where Ramsay had flayed him. 

Hesitantly, one hand went beneath his thighs, not sure what he would find there—if, somehow, the miracle would grant him everything else but this—and his cock twitched against his palm. He unlaced his trousers, desperate to see, and found that it was as long and thick as he remembered; perhaps even more generous than it had been. Well, if the Drowned God saw fit to give him that, who was he to question a god’s wisdom?

He closed his eyes, wrapping his hand around his cock. He didn’t stroke it yet, just held it, savoring the feeling. He’d almost forgotten how good this was. 

Slowly, he stroked the shaft, teasing himself, biting his lip to stifle a whimper. His mind conjured up an image of Sansa, her red hair falling in a curtain around them, her soft hand wrapped around him. She’d be hesitant at first, uncertain, but he’d guide her hand. She’d be a natural at it, like she was at most things, and she’d grow more bold as she went. 

He imagined her in the crown of the Kings of Winter, the swords rising from her bright hair, sitting in her lord father’s seat as he knelt before her spread legs. He’d worship her, drown in her, make her fall apart on his lips and tongue and fingers again and again as she writhed underneath him and her voice went hoarse from moaning his name. 

He tightened his grip slightly, his thumb coming up to tease the head, his hand twisting around the shaft faster. He missed her like a limb. She’d be beautiful, shining in the moonlight, every inch of them pressed together in his narrow bunk. He’d bury his face in her neck and feel her soft hair around him like a curtain, surrounded by her. She would press kisses to his skin, gentle at first, but then harder, biting. He thought of her red lips sucking dark marks on his neck and shoulders, and tightened his grip on his cock. 

Even in his mind, he hesitated before letting her gown slip off of her shoulders. She’d be shy about it, blushing a pretty pink, but he’d kiss her, ease her into it—and once she was bared before him, he’d kiss her again and again, her neck and breasts and thighs, until she couldn’t do anything but moan and cry his name for everyone to hear. He’d fuck her slowly, languid, their limbs tangled together until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, and the rocking of the ship would do most of the work, moving them together. 

He bit back the _Sansa_ on his lips and spent with a low moan. 

Sansa was beautiful. He had always known that; she had been a cute child, round with baby fat, and a pretty girl, but far too young to be anything more than a passing thought as he tumbled barmaids and servants; she’d been the brightest thing in Winterfell while they had been surviving Ramsay—but he’d been Reek then, and all Reek knew was what hurt (everything) and what didn’t (keeping Ramsay happy, sometimes). 

Reek was gone, drowned in the sea, and Theon remained. Ramsay was dead, executed after Sansa and Jon had retaken Winterfell. They were free. He hoped she enjoyed watching his head roll. 

Sansa looked near tears as she stopped in the doorway, and he remembered the Drowned God’s words— _she waits and worries for you._ He’d never meant to worry her, never thought she would; she would be safe with Jon, maybe sparing him a mention in her thoughts, and he would stay by Yara’s side and dream of her. 

There were other people in the room, he was certain of it, but she was here and free and radiant, glowing like a beacon. A lighthouse, he thought, suddenly; a lone tower, shining out into the night, undaunted by storms or darkness. 

The Dragon Queen was here too, watching him expectantly. Yara hadn’t mentioned her once since he had rescued her, and he wasn’t sure if their alliance was still in place after she had left Yara for dead.

“Your Grace,” he said with a nod of acknowledgement to her—Yara had been very clear when she gave him permission to fight for Winterfell that he was a prince and didn’t bow to anyone except her, and if he tried bowing to her he’d get smacked for it. “My lady.”

Sansa smiled at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

“Where is your sister?” the Dragon Queen asked. 

_Safe, no thanks to you._ “She’s gone with her ships to reclaim the Iron Islands, since I executed Euron.”

“Why aren’t you with her?” She hadn’t seemed to notice the way his gaze flicked to Sansa every three seconds. He turned on his heel, facing Sansa fully.

“I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa. If you’ll have me.”

Her embrace was answer enough. Her arms were stronger than they had been, sure and certain, holding him close enough to her that he could almost feel her heartbeat through her bodice.

His arms came up to return her embrace, clutching her close, and he turned his face into her neck, hungry for her warmth. His cock twitched in his breeches, not quite growing hard, but certainly _interested_. 

Sansa must have noticed it, because she pulled away slightly, a trace of confusion and wonder on her face, mingled with relief. 

“If you come with me, I’ll show you to the chambers you’ll be staying in.” Her fingers interlaced with his, her thumb running along his knuckles. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Sansa.”

As soon as they were out of the hall, she paused, turning to face him. Her hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing his skin. 

“You’re really here,” she whispered. “You came back.”

“I did.” Sansa had grown taller than him in the past years; he hadn’t noticed before. He reached up to her face, mirroring her gesture, but hesitated with his fingertips on the curve of her cheek.

“May I?” he asked, feeling breathless. 

“You may,” Sansa said. 

Her lips were warm and soft under his, parted slightly. Her kiss was hesitant and uncertain, even as Theon drew on long-forgotten memories of charming girls with kisses to guide her into opening for him like an unfurling flower. 

Her eyes were wide when they broke apart, her chest heaving and a pink stain spreading across her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, half on instinct.

“I’m not. That was—I’ve never been kissed like that.” Her fingers toyed with his, her gaze focused on their joined hands. “I thought I might have been mistaken in the hall, but…I know he took your fingers.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I want to hear it. Come on, I was taking you to my chambers, we can speak there.” She led him through the corridors. Winterfell had changed; new tapestries hung on the walls, and he was sure that she wouldn’t want the room Ramsay had used. 

“I thought we were going to mine?” Though, if she wanted to take him to her chambers, he wouldn’t say no. 

The blush was back. “With Daenerys’s troops here so unexpectedly, we’ve had to double up on rooms. I hope you don’t mind sharing with me.” So that was the Dragon Queen’s name. Somehow, Theon had missed learning it. 

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re here.” She favored him with a smile, opening the chamber door. “I missed you.”

Theon’s cheeks burned, and he was grateful he was dark enough that his blushes didn’t show easily. It was one thing to know it, even from a god, and another thing to hear it from her. 

The room was the same one that Ramsay had claimed for his own, but it looked nothing like it had during his rule. Tapestries covered the walls. The curtains around the bed were woven with images of wolves and forests and rivers. There was no trace of Ramsay left; even the sheets were different. 

“May I?” Sansa asked, toying with a lock of his hair. 

“Please,” Theon said. 

She kissed him again and again, pinning him against the wall with one hand on his chest. “I missed you. I want to hear about what happened, how you got your fingers back.” He wasn’t sure if her words were interrupting her kisses, or if her kisses were interrupting her words. 

“It’s not just my fingers,” he gasped as Sansa’s mouth drifted to his neck. His hips bucked against her thigh. For a moment he wondered if he would spill in his breeches like a green boy at nothing more than her kisses. “Fuck, _Sansa_ —”

“Tell me.”

“St-stop, I need—” He had barely stuttered out the first syllable when Sansa pulled away. “Hard to focus while you’re kissing me.”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the least. 

Theon took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and sat down on the bed, Sansa beside him. She was silent as he explained it all: Yara’s capture and how he couldn’t do anything but run, going to Dragonstone and meeting Jon again, the fight with Yara’s men and how he had washed his face in the sea, silently asking the Drowned God’s blessing, the dream and waking up to find himself healed, rescuing Yara and killing Euron, Yara sending him to Winterfell. He spoke until he couldn’t, until he ran out of words, hesitant as they had been. Sansa only watched him, her gaze soft, her hands gentle around his. 

“May I?” she asked when he was done, her fingers at the wrist of his glove. 

“Go ahead.”

She pulled off the glove, revealing the skin. She knew as well as he did what Ramsay had done to him, and her eyes were bright and shining as she ran a fingertip along the fine scars around his fingers. 

“Do they hurt at all?”

“No. It’s like they were never gone. Same with…everything else.”

“Will you show me?”

Theon pulled off his boots and socks, and started unlacing his armor. Sansa laid her hands on his as he fumbled with the straps, stilling them. 

“Let me.”

Her fingers pulled at the straps holding his breastplate in place, catching it as it came undone and setting it against the wall. She unpinned the collar of his tunic, the small iron kraken dark against her hand. The tentacles seemed to curl around her fingers as she set it down on her nightstand. Theon unfastened his tunic the rest of the way and pulled it off, baring his skin to her. 

She traced along the silver lines of his scars, the dark strokes of his tattoos, her touch gentle. 

“Oh, _Theon_ ,” she breathed, tears in her eyes. 

He pressed himself up on his toes to kiss her, his hands in her hair. It was as soft as he’d imagined it, shining like silk, curling around his fingers. 

“I love you,” she said, as they broke apart. “Which—you knew, I’m sure, but I thought I should say it properly.”

He hadn’t. “I’ve loved you for—years, it feels like.”

She kissed him, soft and sweet, her hand carding through his hair. “Don’t leave,” she whispered. “Not again.”

“I won’t.” His hands dropped to her hips, thumbing her sides under the edge of her heavy leather bodice. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“Always,” she said, and kissed him again. “Theon, when you said that you had everything back, does that mean…” Her gaze flicked downwards. “Everything?”

“Yes, but—I won’t hurt you, I swear.”

Her brow furrowed. “I know that. You’d never hurt me. This—all of this, it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I wanted you when you didn’t have it, and I still want you now. It’ll just be a little easier, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Theon said, trying to process any of that. “Wait, you—when you say you _want me_ , does that mean—”

Her face was as red as her hair. “I mean that I would like to, um. To go to bed with you. So to speak.”

“Sansa…”

“I love you, and I trust you, and I _want_ you. I want to—with you, it would have to be you, I can’t imagine anyone else doing this with me—and if you don’t want me, then that’s fine, but—”

He kissed her. “I don’t want anyone else, either.”

Her hands fumbled at the front of her bodice, fingers searching the leather for the hidden fasteners that Theon could just barely see. 

“Let me,” he said, his hands on hers. 

Sansa nodded her consent and he carefully undid the metal clasps, one by one, taking off her armored shell. She looked different without it; softer, a woman of flesh and blood rather than a queen of ice and stone. 

She undid the wolf-head pin at her collar, setting it beside his kraken pin. They looked like they belonged together, the silver and iron, leaning against each other. 

Her hands trembled as the lace holding her dress together came undone, and he could see her hesitating with the gown undone but still covering her up. 

“Come on,” he teased, trying to rid himself of thoughts of dark days and screaming, “you’re not going to blind me.” His grin felt weak. 

Sansa smiled back, shakily, and let the gown drop off of her shoulders. Theon might have spoken too soon—he did feel a little blinded, even with her mostly covered by her thin shift and stays. She was gorgeous. His eyes traced along her full figure, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. 

She was blushing, avoiding his eyes. He cradled her face in his hands, pushing himself up on his toes to kiss her. 

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you. You always were.” Some of his surprise must have shown on his face. “Ramsay couldn’t take that away. He tried, but he couldn’t.” Her fingers traced along his cheekbone, their faces close together. “My handsome prince.”

“Yours, always, my queen.”

She kissed him, less gentle than her other kisses. Their teeth clacked together, her tongue running along his lips and into his mouth. He felt half-devoured when she broke away to mouth at his neck and shoulder. Fuck, he had dreamed about this, and it hadn’t been half so good as having it in reality; Sansa was warm and solid in his arms, no dream phantom, her kisses interspersed with gentle nips at his skin. She had him half-pinned to her bed—he could break free if he wanted to, but why would he ever want to—and her hands roamed over his shoulders, his arms, his chest and stomach, as though memorizing every inch of his skin. Her fingers toyed with the waistband of his breeches. 

“May I, love?” she asked. 

“Go ahead.”

His cock had been half-hard since her first kiss, and hadn’t grown any softer since. Sansa eyed it carefully as it sprang free of his breeches. 

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised her, taking her hand in his and guiding it to his cock. “It’s just me, nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, her fingers curling softly around his rapidly-hardening cock. Her touch was feather-light, teasing him. 

His hands slid under the hem of her shift, running up her thighs to the curve of her hips. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes.”

She hummed, smiling. “I think you’re right. Will you unlace me?”

“Gladly.” He undid the laces one at a time, easing the stays off of her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. 

She pulled off her shift when her stays were off, tossing it on top of them and straddling him, her knees by his hips. “Better?”

“Much.” His hand slid between her thighs, rubbing at her mound and lips, finding her already wet. A thrill went through him at the thought of her growing wet from his kisses alone. 

From the base of Theon’s cock came a dark tentacle, not very large at first but growing quickly. It wriggled toward where Sansa’s thigh pressed against Theon’s, the dark flesh bold against her pale skin. 

Sansa stared at it. “Is that…normal?”

“No,” Theon said, with the strange sense that he should be panicking. “No, it’s…this is new.”

She brushed a finger along the tip and down the back of it, studying it as it squirmed into her palm. “It’s cute,” she decided. “Maybe it’s part of the blessing? Krakens have tentacles.”

“Are you suggesting the Drowned God mixed me up with a squid?”

She colored. “Maybe, I don’t know. I guess if the Old Gods gave me a blessing I wouldn’t say _no_ to wolf teeth…” She sat back on her heels, still stroking the tentacle like it was a pet. 

The thought of Sansa with a mouth full of fangs should not have been so appealing. 

She brought the tentacle up to her mouth and kissed the top of it. It curled around her hand and along her cheek. Theon bit back a whimper. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No, it’s, uh, it’s just a little sensitive, that’s all.” 

Sansa hummed, kissing it again. The tip disappeared between her lips, flicking in and out, meeting the point of her tongue. 

“Fuck, Sansa, you have no idea how you look right now.”

“Don’t I?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, deliberately wrapping her lips around the tentacle. He could feel her mouth around it, soft and warm, her tongue running along the ridges of flesh on it’s underside. Her cheeks hollowed, her eyes closed. The corners of her mouth were tugged upwards into a pleased smile around the tentacle. 

He reached out, hesitant, as though this was a dream that would evaporate at a touch, and laid his hand on her cheek. Sansa leaned into his palm, and he could feel the tentacle as she sucked at it. His cock throbbed at the sight, and he wondered if she’d look like that with his cock in her mouth. Another tentacle emerged, brushing up her bare stomach, curling around her breast to toy with it. He buried his face in her neck as he took her other breast in his hand, sucking dark marks on her neck and teasing at the nipple with his thumb. 

Sansa moaned around the tentacle in her mouth. Theon could feel it better than he heard it; the vibration of her throat under his lips and around his tentacle.

He pressed kisses to every inch of skin that he could reach; her breasts and stomach and neck and thighs. Sansa’s hands buried in his hair, drawing him closer. 

Two more tentacles emerged, long and thicker than the others, wrapping around her thighs and drawing them gently apart, displaying her to Theon’s greedy gaze. She squirmed against them as their tips brushed against her dripping folds, running along her lips. She turned her face away from him, her eyes squeezing shut, her hands clenched into fists. 

He caught her chin on his fingers, turning her face back to him. “Don't look away, love. It's just you and me. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Just relax a little.”

Her eyes were wide as they fixed on him. She looked very innocent for someone with a tentacle deep in her mouth.

“Is it good?” Theon asked. She nodded, moaning again. The sound rippled down the tentacle to Theon’s cock, twitching and neglected amid the tentacles. 

One of the tentacles wrapped around her thighs claimed her clit, playing with it, while the other slipped inside her, thrusting in and out shallowly. It barely slipped in a fingerswidth at first, but grew bolder as Sansa threw her head back, still sucking and moaning around the tentacle in her mouth. Theon watched, transfixed, as it disappeared into her, her legs trembling in the grip of the tentacles. 

He reached out, tracing a finger around her lips. She was soaking wet, the tentacle sliding in and out easily as it fucked her. Her hands twisted in his hair, tugging just on the pleasurable side of pain. 

Dragons could crash through the roof, the dead could break down the door, and Theon still wouldn’t be able to look away from Sansa, bare before him, writhing in pleasure. 

He wanted to taste her, and the tentacle pulled out of her as soon as he had formed the thought and wrapped around his cock, stroking it lazily. She whined at the loss, but it quickly changed to a gasping moan as he kissed her clit. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her lips. “So gorgeous, so good for me. I love you so much.”

She was sweeter than he’d imagined. She tasted a bit like the lemon cakes she favored; he hoped, idly, as he drowned in her, that she got to eat as many as she wanted now that she ruled Winterfell. 

All of his senses were filled with Sansa. She was all he could taste, smell; the tentacle in her mouth had pulled back so that he could hear her moans, her half-formed desperate pleas of _yes Theon please more_. Half of Winterfell could probably hear her, too. Theon couldn’t find it in himself to be anything other than pleased about it. Let them all hear that she had taken _him_ to bed, that he was the one pleasing her like no other man ever could. 

He sucked a bit more forcefully than he’d meant to, and she screamed his name, her thighs trembling around his ears, her back arching like a taut bow. His tentacles were caressing her, cradling her, holding her close. One had wrapped itself around her shoulders, propping her up. 

“Sansa? How are you feeling?” He brushed a stray braid, half-undone, back from her forehead as she trembled in his arms. Her eyes were hazy and unfocused when she blinked up at him. 

“That was good.”

“It looked like it.”

“I want…” The words struck something in Theon, something he didn’t know how to name. He wanted her to say it more often; he’d give her anything she wanted. 

“What do you want, sweet Sansa?”

“I want _more_ ,” she whined. “Please, Theon, touch me.”

His hand dipped between her legs. “Gladly.” He kissed her, wanting her to taste herself, and she whined into his mouth, her hips bucking into him. “Do you want more, love?”

“I want you, please.”

“You have me, right here, touching you.” He punctuated it with a thumb to her clit. “Was there something else?”

“ _Theon_ , I want your—your—inside me, please.”

“My what?” he murmured into her ear, voice low. She shivered in his arms, her legs spreading wider. “My fingers? You have those, sweetling.”

“You _know_ what I want.” Her hand closed around his cock, squeezing once. 

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Your c-cock.” Her cheeks were dark red, darker than her hair. “Please.”

Theon could feel his own face flaming at the word. He shifted her arms to brace her elbows on his shoulders and guided the tip of his cock into her. His tentacles writhed around her, sliding across her skin. One stroked her hair as it tumbled down her back, another wrapped around her hips, a third stroked her thigh, and the last one caressed her face while Theon’s hands ranged up and down her sides. 

Sansa sank down on Theon’s cock, taking it into her. He lay back against the sheets, watching her ride him. The lower two tentacles guided her as she rolled her hips, taking him deeper and deeper. 

She was beautiful, covered in dark marks from his mouth and hands and tentacles, and he wanted to do this forever. They fit together so well, as though when the Drowned God had restored his body he had been made to fit inside her. 

She’d feel this tomorrow, he realized with a spark of pleasure at the base of his spine, she’d wear her gowns and heavy bodice and she’d feel the marks he’d left on her beneath them, where no one else could touch. What a picture she’d be then, squirming in her seat, trying to think about something other than his hands on her, wet and aching and he’d be there, just out of reach, until she couldn’t take anymore and pressed him against a wall, or the council table, and devoured him…

His own peak was building, held back only by his desire to watch her fall apart first. It wouldn’t be long, from the look of her; Sansa was babbling praise as she rode him, her thighs trembling and eyes glazed with pleasure. One of the tentacles had moved and was pressed against her clit as its tip toyed with her lips, opening her just enough to fit the tip in alongside his cock.   
He cupped her cheek in his hand, bringing her face down to his and kissing her slowly and deeply as she came, clenching around him. The pressure finished him, destroying whatever thin threads held his own peak back and he came with a choked moan, hips stuttering into her. 

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I, you,” she whispered back. 

His tentacles stroked her soothingly as he pulled out, catching her as she slumped onto him, and slid back into him without a trace. 

“Was that good?” she asked, her face a pretty shade of pink. 

“Amazing. Best way to lose my maidenhead.” 

She giggled. “That’s true, you are the maiden of the two of us, technically. What was your first first time like?”

Theon stilled. He hadn’t thought about her in a while. “I was thirteen, and a miller’s wife took a fancy to me. Pulled my clothes off and rode me like a horse.” He forces a laugh. The memory is oddly painful. She’d been comely, he supposed, but he hadn’t much enjoyed it. He hadn’t said no, though, even when her grip had felt more like a chokehold and his vision swam dark from lack of air. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory.”

“It’s not…it’s fine. She didn’t force me. If I had wanted to, I could have left.” 

“If you say so,” Sansa said, sounding unconvinced. “What about…did you ever experiment? Jeyne and I used to practice kissing with each other, did you and Robb ever do something like that?”

Robb is somehow a less painful memory than the miller’s wife. “Not really. We shared girls, though, and during—during the war we’d fuck each other.” They had done that before the war, too; half the time ‘sharing a girl with Robb’ was actually ‘sharing Robb with a girl.’

“Did that hurt?”

“No more than anything we just did hurt. Took a bit of oil, that’s all. You could probably take me like that, if you had a wooden cock.” Kyra had one, he remembered; she’d liked sharing Robb with him, one of them on each end. 

“Would you like that?”

“Not tonight,” he said, tracing nonsense patterns on her hip, “because I’m tired. But some other night, I would.” He could just picture Sansa with a thick, curving cock strapped to her. If he wasn’t spent, rather literally, his cock would stir at the thought.

Sansa hummed thoughtfully, reaching towards her nightstand and plucking out a rag from a drawer, wiping herself down. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”

A comfortable silence fell over them both. Theon felt himself beginning to drift off to sleep, sated and satisfied. Sansa fit just as well in his arms as he had fit inside her, he discovered with a sleepy satisfaction. 

There would be conversations later; figuring out what they were to each other and what they wanted, what would happen in the weeks and months and years to come. Assuming, of course, the dead didn’t kill them all. 

He’d take her to Pyke, to the sea-shore there, and then to Harlaw so she could meet his mother. Theon could just picture her among the grey stones of the Islands, her red hair caught in the wind and made into a flag. Maybe, in the years to come, they’d have children; Sansa holding a babe with his dark hair to her breast, him looking down into the face of a child with Sansa’s shining eyes. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sansa asked, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep. 

“Just how much I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [theon-greystark](https://theon-greystark.tumblr.com)


End file.
